


Aspirations of What They Can Become

by locketofyourhair



Category: Marvel (Movies), Thor (2011)
Genre: Character of Color, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Incest, virginity/celibacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketofyourhair/pseuds/locketofyourhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heimdall is perhaps the only one in Asgard to understand her needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aspirations of What They Can Become

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sinuous_curse/profile)[**sinuous_curse**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sinuous_curse/) for cheerleading and betaing.

As a girl, she is aware of her brother’s place of great honor at the Bifrost. Their mother says she is never to bother him. She is a young and flighty thing and does not need bother Heimdall in his posting. She merely says, “It must be very lonely,” and their mother sighs and kisses her cheek.

In the morning, a royal guard has brought a message and a sweet cake. The paper says _Not as lonely as you would think._

*

Sif enters warrior training. It is perhaps her greatest moment, when she beats three boys in the tilting yard before her hat is knocked off and her gold hair spills out around her shoulders.

“Trickery!” One of the boys yells, though he is laughing where she felled him. “Trickery and deceit.”

“Who are you, maiden?” the instructor asks. He is laughing, but not in the delighted way that the boy laughs, like he sees her as a girl alone.

“I am Sif,” she says, in her best bellow, and the men laugh louder. Someone touches her hair, and she turns her practice sword upon him, taking out his knee. “Do not touch me,” she spits.

“You think you could keep up, girl?” The instructor grips her shoulder and spins her around. “Do you think you could train with the boys?”

She sets her mouth in a firm line. “I want to be a Valkyrie,” she declares. “I want to be a warrior.”

The laughter makes her ears burn, and she knows it’s foolhardy to declare such a thing. The girls who will be Valkyries have been training since they were old enough to hold swords. This is not specialized training; this is the training for all boys who want to be men.

She doesn’t care. She wants to wield a sword. She wants to be able to protect their mother, if Heimdall is always to be watching. She wants to make her family proud.

The boys stand, and the laughing one comes next to her, then another boy that she did not fight with but she knows, Thor Odinsson.

“She is good enough to fight with me,” he says, and she’s not.

Not yet, anyway. She tells herself that she will be good enough, and she nods vigorously as two more boys and a teenager join them. She knows Thor’s brother by looking at him, and they all have her back.

The instructor looks at them all and sighs. “Sif will join us then in the morning. In a month, if she is not good enough to fell the lot of you, I will send her home.”

“I will be that good,” Sif says, before any of the boys can talk. “I swear on my honor that I will be that good.”

“We will see then,” the instructor says. He does not believe her.

She is not surprised when a messenger seeks her out, a horse by his side to take her to the end of the Bifrost. Heimdall wishes to speak to her. She will have to ride hard to reach him and then be back before dinner, but she does it. She wants to know what her brother has to say.

He is alone when she reaches him, sliding off the horse.

“You aren’t trained enough to beat Thor,” he says, in his careful way. His orange eyes are trained on her face.

“I will train harder,” she says. “I will be a warrior.”

He stares at her, and then he smiles. “If you could stand the solitude, I would help train you.”

“I can stand whatever you can stand,” she declares.

Training at the end of the Bifrost is hardly as thrilling as tossing Fandral and Loki into the dust day after day, but Heimdall teaches her tricks, how to use bulk against her opponent. They are alone because Heimdall has no one else who would come here, not even their mother as she understands that Heimdall should not be distracted.

She doesn’t think he minds her there, though. He sends her a shining sword when she manages to flip Thor into the dirt. She will train. She will be a warrior.

*

She is not expecting to be a better warrior than Loki. She is not expecting to be better liked than him. It’s a shock when he casts the spell and her hair falls from her head, so she is bald and exposed. She does not cry until Volstagg says, “Isn’t this better? A warrior maiden must be alone, and now you are a touch less beautiful.”

He means it in the nicest of ways, and his hand is brotherly on her back. She stares at her bald head, and she knows that she will always be alone. She is a warrior maiden, a goddess of war to the mortals, and she is not supposed to take a lover. She should be bald as a monk.

Her throat is tight, though, at the thought of always looking like this, marked as having to be alone. To be unable to tumble anyone. She has shared quarters with Fandral and Thor before, and she has heard the breathy moans of their ladies and felt the heat of wanting.

Now no man will want her.

She pushes away from Volstagg and hides in her rooms at the palace. Normally, she would go to Heimdall but she does not want him to see her like this. She does not want anyone to see her like this, not even her brother. She cannot tell him that she reviles her status as a warrior maiden, if that means she can never lose her virginity.

Humans have their revered virgins. Such a thing should not be celebrated in Asgard.

Later, when Thor has forced Loki to return her hair and her hair has grown back in thick, dark waves, she looks in the mirror and thinks that she looks more Heimdall’s sister now than ever before.

Heimdall sends her a message with new barrettes and a dagger. _You have always been beautiful, perhaps moreso than any one woman in the nine realms_.

She doesn’t go to see him; she knows he sees her as she is now, and that he means her comfort. She cannot summon the courage to see him. She is not bald, but she is marked as other. She will be a maiden forever with hair spun from dwarves. She chose this life, and she will not trouble her brother with such trivial pain, not when he has been celibate for far longer than she has been alive.

*

Except that it is more than that. As the centuries pass she is not content in her celibacy but she does not dwell on it except at night, alone. Then she is consumed with the thoughts of what she cannot have, the fantasy of what she would like. She takes her armor off and seems to spend hours with her hands between her legs, touching her clit and finding her orgasm.

It feels worse though, year after year, the knowing that she cannot have a lover as easily her friends. Her mother asks often if she would like to marry, if she would love a handsome husband who would marvel at her exploits and they could have a family.

Sif says nothing, because there is no man she would give her sword up for. She practices in the yards and drinks at night with the other warriors and looks away when they begin to find women who are not pressured into remaining a warrior maiden.

She goes home half-drunk and always wanting. Even her own efforts feel useless. She imagines herself with a dozen different men, with Thor and Loki and the Warriors Three. She imagines herself with Valkyries, and for a few shame filled nights, with Frigga and then Odin.

And then she imagines herself with Heimdall and the shame is nearly enough to choke on, but the thought of him between her legs, of him pushing into her and them both ending their too long celibacy. She imagines his body beneath her, her writhing in his lap and taking her pleasure as she has seen other women do with warriors. His hands would bruise her thighs, and it would be perfect.

It becomes an obsession, rubbing her fingers over her clit and imaging Heimdall there. Her fingers are his, and they are so desperate for touch. They both need so badly. She whispers his name into the dark, again and again, because she knows he could be watching. She doesn’t cover herself as she does it, wanting him to think on what she does because of him, of the aching need that they both can’t dissuade.

*

She visits Heimdall sometimes, even though they both know what she does at night. She grasps his arm like a warrior now, rather than offering a hug, and she tells him of her battles even though he must know everything.

“How is our mother?” Heimdall asks in his deep voice, and she lets him see the way she shivers. He closes his eyes and turns away. “Sister? How is she?”

“She looks for yet another man,” she says with a smile, rolling her eyes. Their mother has earned a reputation for placing good warriors into the ground, first Heimdall’s father than then two more men before Sif’s own father declared he was warrior enough for her bed.

Sif doesn’t remember her father. He died in a raid some years after her birth.

“I see,” Heimdall says. They sit in companionable silence.

“I should bring you food some time,” she says. “Sweet breads. It is what little sisters bring to the warriors, when we train.”

Heimdall looks at her, and he reaches out to smooth a piece of her hair back, where it has fallen past the combs. “But you are not that type of little sister.”

He stares at her with those strange orange eyes, and there is a message she is missing, something he means for her to see. She does not have his powers. A bit of teleportation is nothing compared to his seeing.

Whatever message he means, she does not miss the way his fingers linger at her cheek when he takes his hand away.

*

She nearly dies in a battle with elves. She nearly dies, a sword sliding into her stomach as if she is cheese, and she can feel its scrape, the push of it against her spine, and if Volstagg had not been there, she would have died then and there. As it is, she does not know how she survives, except that she wakes alone in the healing room with stitching to her side and notes not to move on fear of her reopening the wound.

The healers say she cannot train for three weeks. She must rest and heal, and every few hours they change her dressings and drain the wound of fluid. Sif is never alone, and she is more aware of everything. She cannot take pleasure here; that would be violating the idea of being a warrior maiden. When the healers dress her, their hands occasionally brush over her breasts and her nipples tighten. She pretends that it doesn’t happen; the healers don’t draw attention to it.

Sif is allowed back to her rooms after two weeks, and she does not try on her armor. She wears a simple tunic and leggings, not caring that she is too injured to ride. She takes a gentle gelding rather than her own mare, letting it amble along the rainbow bridge.

“Sister,” Heimdall calls when she is too far yet to see his face. “You should turn back.”

“I shall not,” she says back. The wound is healed, if a bit tender. She knows that it is caution that keeps her off the training grounds. “I am healed enough for this.”

He does not respond as she comes closer, tying the horse off. She balls her fists at her sides, and the wind from the seas makes her hair blow about her face.

“Why are you here, sister?” Heimdall asks. His hands are tight around the hilt of his sword, and his head is bowed just enough to shade most of his face from view. “You are too injured to leave Asgard.”

“You said once I was not the sort of sister to bring sweets,” she says, and she finds her heart is pounding. She does not care if this is the only time she can touch another, if she is a warrior maiden in action (but not name) from now on. She will not die a warrior’s death without slaking some of this need.

“No, you are not.” He watches her still, and it is only when she takes a step forward and he takes one back that she knows he realizes what she means to do.

“Then let me be the sister I am meant to be, Heimdall,” she whispers. She steps forward, and he moves back, further into the Bifrost. “You know what I mean to do.”

“I do, and I cannot be that for you, Sif. I must stay here. This is my station, and I will remain here as long as Asgard needs me.”

Sif steps forward, into his space, and he does not force her away. She finds that he is near frozen when her this close. “I am not asking you into my marriage bed, Heimdall. I am asking you to do this one thing for me, this one thing we both may never have.”

She reaches up to take the helmet from his head. He does not stop her.

He does not touch her, his hands help out like he’s staving her off yet. “Sif,” he says, but then she touches his face. He kisses her then, fiercely hard and desperate, and she kisses him back the same, pushing herself at him.

His armor doesn’t yield to her, and she does not care. He leans against the great pedestal in the center of the Bifrost and she wraps her legs about his waist. He holds her with both hands squeezing her thighs, and then her ass. She has never felt another’s hands, and she wants more. “Please, let me see you.”

“I cannot remove more of my armor,” he says, even as she begins to undo his breastplate, unhooking it from the back plate. “Sif,” he says, but his words are lost under her mouth.

“If this is the only moment we will have, we should do it proper. I want to feel your skin.” She presses her fingers against his neck, to feel his heart beat, and he sets her down, pushing her away. “Heimdall, please,” she says, and she balls her hands into fists. Her skin is so warm and to be turned away now feels inhuman.

But he isn’t stopping. He removes his armor with easy, practiced movements, piece by piece until he is as bare as she is, and then his tunic and his hose. When she sees this, she strips herself too, pulling her hair loose and free.

He is naked and he is beautiful, and she cannot help but to touch him. Her fingers trace the shape of his chest, his stomach, the groove of his hips, until she places both on his cock and feels the heat and weight of it. She wants this inside her. Waiting feels unbearable.

“Now?” she breathes, and Heimdall pushes her away again. His hands look so dark against her skin, strong and calloused as any warriors. She makes herself note the particular roughness of his palms, so she can remember this in the lonely years that will follow. She will remember this.

“If you are to be the only woman I touch, I want more than just you over me,” he whispers, before he bows his head to take her nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing her skin It hurts, and she cries out, but he does it again, and she wants more. She did not know it could be like this with another. (She had not let herself believe it could be this with another.)

“Have you watched the other warriors?” he asks, and his hands are pushing her hips apart, pushing her against the pedestal now, so that her weight is supported when he moves between them, biting at her thighs. He bites as hard as he can, and she cries out.

“Yes,” she says, and her voice does not sound like her. She is breathy and high-pitched, and when his tongue pushes between her legs, she screams and has to hold on to the pedestal. She is pinned between his body and the cold metal, and when his fingers brush against her clit, she feels as if she would shake apart. It is perhaps not the most powerful orgasm she has ever had, but it is the first she has ever shared with someone.

His mouth is wet when he comes to stand, and she kisses him, to taste herself on his tongue, and she does not want anything more than to feel him pressed against her now. She takes him in hand again, running her hand over the shaft until he makes a stuttered gasp and buries his head against her shoulder.

“I cannot last,” he gasps, and she knows. She raises one leg to guide him in. The pressure is there, but no pain. She has ridden horses too long and too hard, and it is just that she is so unused to the girth of him.

She does not cry out, though, and he is slow at first, until she pulls him closer and rolls her hips. “Is this how you would have it?” His hands are bruising on her hips, and there is sweat between their bodies. Her body is too sensitive from the orgasm before, but she will not stop. This is all she has.

“On the floor,” she gasps. “I wish to ride you.”

It is strange to pull apart so he may stretch himself on the floor, so she can have what she has wanted. This slide is easier, but it feels deeper. His hands find her breasts, then her clit, and they keep moving as she works herself above him. She braces herself on his chest and grinds down as hard as she can. She can feel the second orgasm coming, one of her hands coming between her legs to slide along his, to feel where they are joined and make the same furtive touches to her clit.

It is over too soon. It is over too soon, and she feels him come inside her, his groan so loud that the Bifrost seem to shake with it. She barely withstands it, barely managing to feel his fingers going clumsy between her legs before she joins him.

They do not speak when it is over, when they are panting and slumped against each other. In moments, she will stand and dress herself against. There is a faint twinge in her side, the wound protesting her activities. She will ride back to her rooms, and she will sleep. In the morning, she will be his sister again, and this will not be spoken of. They will be alone again.

But for now, for this moment, she rests her head against his chest and lets him stroke her hair like a lover.


End file.
